Gemotions

The manuscript remained untouched on his desk. The words, the ideas, they wouldn't come. The feeling was like a paralysis, a heavy blanket smothering his creativity. The article, stolen, had taken something vital from him.

He pushed the chair back from his desk, the squeak grating on his ears. He walked to the window, the overcast sky mirroring his mood. The world outside felt drab, devoid of color, like a picture someone had painted with gray.

He stood there for a long time, the silence broken only by the occasional passing car. He felt drained, incapable of the simplest task. He sank to the floor, and just sat there.